


Fireworks

by XiDu (orphan_account)



Category: RPF - Rammstein
Genre: M/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:31:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/XiDu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three years in the wilderness, everything - and nothing - has changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diagon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diagon/gifts).



It takes hours to prepare the stage. It's almost easier when they have to take the whole construction with them and build it from scratch. Even though it takes more than a day, at least that way it's familiar: they know where it's safe to tread, where to duck their heads. The thick snakes of cables duct-taped to the floor seem less intrusive, and the lights are less of a distraction.

The main advantage of bringing their own stage, though, is that the pyrotechnics have safe, secure seating built into the framework. Richard has stopped counting the number of on-stage incidents where sparks, fireworks or gouts of flame went in the wrong direction. Just because Till likes being set on fire, doesn't mean the rest of them do.

Tonight they're performing in an old theatre. After a break of almost three years, they all decided it was best to start small. At first Paul had suggested they should go for the whole stadium gig, but Till's shuttered silence spoke more eloquently than words as to his fears, and so they're beginning again here.

There's a lot of wood. Richard knocks a beam with his knuckles and hopes nothing goes wrong tonight. He follows the wriggle of cables to the stage wing and looks out. The lighting rig is already in place above him, an abbreviated version of the system they've used in the past. The lights are on low, facing downward and illuminating Till as he kneels hunched over the metallic tracks containing the pyrotechnics.

Richard sighs. The technicians have already gone through and checked the pyros twice. Till always insists on doing the third and final check himself. Somehow, he always manages to tear his skin on a sharp piece of metal, or jab a finger with the bare end of a wire, or - even more mysteriously - burn himself with a flamethrower or from a shower of sparks.

Footsteps behind him make Richard turn. Schneider comes to stand close in the shadows. He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them into the front of his t-shirt before he looks over Richard's shoulder at Till.

"I thought he'd grow out of it," he murmurs, keeping his voice as low and deep as the darkness around them.

Richard gives a soft laugh. He'd thought the same thing; hoped that the self-imposed exile after the completion of _Rosenrot_ and _Völkerball_ would help not just Till but the whole band. The years of success had blurred too many things, their friendship most of all. Even with the disintegration of his marriage and the culture slaps of living in New York, it hadn't been difficult for Richard to walk away from Rammstein and find escape with his new band Emigrate.

But he's come back. He supposes exiles always long for their homeland, even when they've found a new world in which to play. Maybe that's what lies behind Till's intense, loving focus on the fireworks. The pyrotechnics are crowd-pleasers, but they're also symbolic of who and what the band is and where they've come from.

"He'll never grow out of it."

Richard recognises that the fireworks are an act of creation as well as destruction. They're like Till's poetry, contained one moment then explosive the next; like his lyrics, empty on paper then lit up in flames with the torch of their music; like their relationship, stable for years then fraught with volatile anguish. What you see isn't always what you get. That's the whole point of the band; the whole point of Till's existence. It's what brought him and Till together and what drove them apart.

On the other side of the stage, Till flinches and mutters a curse. He seems to have cut himself. Without hurry, he lifts his injured hand and gazes at the stripe of blood visible even from this distance. A long moment passes, and then he bends his head and absently licks the wound clean as he returns his attention to the fireworks.

Richard shakes his head. "I wish I understood the attraction."

"To fire?"

It's not quite what he meant, but maybe the subject is easier to discuss obliquely. "He spends so much time on it."

Schneider shifts his feet and exhales. "It's dangerous. Till's a cautious man. He wouldn't let it get out of control."

Even though Schneider can't see his expression in the dark, Richard smiles. "It does sometimes."

"You know Till." Schneider's voice is light, showing his awareness that they weren't really talking about the pyros. "He likes the pain."

"Yeah."

They stand and watch him for a while longer, then by unspoken agreement they venture out into the dim pools of the spotlights. Their heavy boots creak the floorboards of the stage, scuff through dust and dirt. They stop and look down.

Till's settling a firework into position. He pauses, his big hand cradling the slim, cylindrical body of the explosive. It's strange to think of the power and helplessness in both man and object, but that's the way he likes it, that's the way he presents himself.  
Snipped wires lie curled around him; the gloves he's supposed to wear are discarded some distance away. His hands are scratched and scarred; small patches of new, pink flesh across his knuckles, the fresh cut still smeared with blood, and a tattered bandage wrapped around the little and ring fingers of his left hand.

"How's it going?" Schneider asks.

"Good." Till finishes placing the firework, taking his time. His movements are gentle, delicate. He sits back on his heels with a grunt. Anyone else would ease the tension from their body, but Till keeps himself sprung tight, too wary of the pain in his knees to move far.

Richard and Schneider share a look. "We're going to start the sound-check."

"Fine." Till nods, and the wings of his hair fall forward to obscure his face.

Schneider arches his eyebrows and backs away.

Richard lingers, watching Till shuffle towards the next firework. "We don't need the hellfire, you know."

"They expect it." Till still doesn't look up. "And after our three years of silence, I don't want to disappoint them."

"You wouldn't." Richard wants to touch him, wants to stroke Till's hair, but he doesn't. Till is impervious to offers of comfort. The only crutches he'll accept are alcohol and sex, and even those make him miserable in the end. But knowing this doesn't stop Richard from trying.

"You can't disappoint us."

Till hesitates before he examines the next firework. Now he looks up. "And you?"

"You've never disappointed me." Richard smiles, reaching out with it, inviting Till to share it with him. "I came back for you, remember?"

Till snorts. "Emigrate was shit. That's why you came back."

"No." Richard holds his gaze. "I came back for you."

Behind them, the drums rattle and pound into life. They both look towards the back of the stage. The moment is broken, but perhaps later it can be mended.

Till mumbles something and bends over the waiting fireworks.

Richard looks at him, then turns and strides across the stage as the cymbals clash. He fetches his guitar and slides the strap over his head until it hugs him. He runs through chords at random, creating sheer noise against Schneider's drums until they merge together and a recognisable tune emerges.

He swings around, caught in the joy of making music, and sees Till watching them. Seated at the edge of the stage and surrounded by his fireworks, he looks content.

That's all Richard's ever wanted. He was right to come back for this, to give Till another chance. Maybe this time, it'll work out. Maybe this time it'll be forever.


End file.
